Pyrrhic Victories: The Martyrdom Chronicles
by Demolation Flame
Summary: The Capitol's tyranny has lasted for a thousand years, but with the introduction of the first ever Double Quell can a broken girl, a tormented Gamemaker, and a traitorous assassin incite rebellion?
1. Knights of Cydonia

**Pyrrhic Victories: The Martyrdom Chronicles**

**Rated M for:**

**-Violence**

**- Language**

**- Allusions to Child Abuse and Sexual Harassment**

**- Mild Romance**

**Summary: The Capitol's tyranny has lasted for a thousand years, but with the introduction of the first ever Double Quell can a broken girl, a tormented Gamemaker, and a traitorous assassin incite rebellion?**

**+A/N: All characters are originals, with no allusions to Canon characters throughout the story. There are certain parallels to the Hunger Games trilogy, but generally I think (and hope) most things are different. I have the entire story wrote so I hope to be updating every day, and by the end I will/should have the sequel done ^^**

**Hope you guys enjoy ~**

**Enrique Eulacias looks roughly like Chace Crawford**

**Iris Hyacinth looks like Sandrine Holt from Black Robe**

**Etymology: "Pyrrhic": (of a victory) won at too great a cost to have been worthwhile for the victor.**

**Chapter One**

**Knights of Cydonia [Muse]**

_Only upon the arousal of an enemy's blood-lust will the superfluous citizens of our Capitol be appeased... And yet if I vocalize this I will have committed treason in the eyes of President Edana Eulacias._

_In the eyes of my mother, whom would as quickly summon me to my death as praise my idealist heart, I would become a traitor._

_I would become the Epiphany of Death. –Wyvern Eulacias_

In a daze of sleep deprivation I stare at the chicken scrawl my hand has procured. It is irrelevant that these words have not pass my lips; in only matters that they have grazed the canvas of thought; embedding their core principles in my every misstep.

It only matters that I am an idealist in heart and soul; a traitor who must play the pawn of the Capitol.

Or perhaps I am the knight in rusty armor, sacrificing his self to protect the queen in the face of a deserted war.

Because the war has long since been won—the Capitol has reigned for centuries; the districts have lost, succumbing to the sufferance of starvation and tyranny.

But this year the games will involve not only the districts, but those who know too much.

The fortieth quarter quell—first ever double quell—will bring the true protectors of the Capitol to their knees. Those unfortunate individuals who have fought diligently to preserve what they once believed in but no longer can will die with their proteges—the tributes they will train for four weeks.

I know most of the determined trainers already know—they know each and every one of them will die with the knowledge burned to their memories. I know too that the few who have not discerned this will suffer the most—perhaps at the hands of their tributes.

Each awful moment of sufferance—of demented entertainment for those wretched Capiolites—is a second I am solely responsible for.

I created this arena, the mutts, and the rules. I have the power to cast any tribute to whatever retribution awaits them—knowing with each life I steal brings condemnation upon me.

I pray for this condemnation—for the punishment that ends my moment by moment turmoil.

And yet I know I do not deserve it—as by now, in my third year as gamemaker—it would be a blessing.

"Wyvern, open your door!"

In accompaniment to the soprano scream is the hollow percussion of fists raining upon the groaning wood.

With a sigh I sit up, my muscles gliding easily as I crumple the paper in one hand, retrieving the remote to the television in another. "One moment, please," I call back, discarding my treasonous words in the flames of the near antique fireplace. Clicking of the Capitol talk show I shoot a fleeting glance in the mirror, working to relay the taut muscles around my lips and eyes.

Once content all traces of weary resentment is masked by a charming half-smirk, emerald eyes sparkling I go to the door.

Taking a breath to cherish the seconds it takes to unlock the complex system of computer identification locks I swing the door open with a grandeur bow.

"Wyvern, quiescent as always."

I blink, taking in the flamboyant, orange and pink dress Mother wears, face a collage of colors unnatural to her generally pale pallor—the shade I wear simply without façade. "I would like to think I'm the opposite of quiescent, Mother." I say quietly so the tension steers clear.

She reaches a plastic hand to pat my cheek, cat-green eyes sympathetic. "Ah, the reason I try to keep you from thinking."

Biting my cheek I chuckle, glancing behind her earnestly. "Did you need something?" I ask, wiping clammy palms against my water repellent dress pants.

"I simply wished to supply you the trainer list. You will be responsible for naming the remaining twelve trainers, after all. Remember, we aren't like to get this chance again."

I nod numbly, feeling the knit in my brows as I scan the list, eyes falling on a few names in particular.

Names I recognize. Of people I know.

People I care about.

Enrique Eulacias.

Tora Yuu.

Kerem Naomi.

"You've got to be kidding," I murmur, horror squirming painfully in my stomach.

"What's wrong?" Mother asks, voice turning sickeningly sweet. Only I can see the devilish gleam in her eyes, challenging me.

You expect me to kill my uncle… my wife…my only friend.

But I only shake my head, erasing my expression. "Absolutely nothing," I say, voice alien to my own ears.

I just want to die.

I just want to run from every death I've caused; every death I will cause.

I just want to kill the one person whose name is not on this list.

She smiles an angelic, quirky smile before slithering down the hall, leaving me petrified at my door.

Petrified as the snake I wish to end leaves its poisoned prey to die a slow, painful death.

But no; my death will come second.

I will, somehow, kill the queen this knight should protect.

President Eulacias will be gone in two months, and then I will die.


	2. I Must Be Dreaming

**Chapter Two**

_**[I Must Be Dreaming - Evanescence]**_

**|Iris Hyacinth|**

_I am blissfully young; my naivety protected even as I stare up at the crackling rage in Papa's eyes. They are like the hottest part of a flame, flickering with an intensity that rivals a welder's torch. At one time I wished I had eyes like his but now my heart stutters fearfully as Papa raises a calloused hand, taking a step closer._

_My head snaps back and pain blossoms just beneath my cheekbone. Papa has just hit me, and while my response is appropriate for my age I wish frantically the cry did not escape. "Papa!"_

_The harsh chortle that slithers from his lips is foreign to my ears. It is so unlike the soft lilt of his laughter, a reassuring sound in comparison to this._

_His fingers curl in and this time his punch connects with my eye, causing me to stumble back as the tears plummet down my ruddy cheeks. Hiccuping I fold into myself, instinct and a desire to live overwhelming the terror in my veins. I scream for him to stop, pleading and asking why. Why are you doing this? Why don't you love me anymore?_

_In retaliation his boot-clad foot strikes my side once, twice. On the third connection I can no longer maintain my little ball and I am sprawled on my back, incoherent with pain, fear, and a sorrow too intense for my small frame to bear. "Papa," I gasp, searching his face for some remnant of the tender, loving father I have known all my life._

_He smirks down at me, fingers wrapping around my throat, successfully cutting of my access to air. I manage to gasp one more plea before my vision becomes too spotty, my head spinning._

"Hotaru!"

_In a frail attempt to displace Papa I wriggle beneath him, using my dwindling strength to batter him with my tiny fists and misplaced kicks._

_"Darius! Stop it!" I hear Mama sobbing but her cries seem so far away, as though I am floating in the clouds. "You're killing her!"_

"Wake up."

_Papa is no longer on top of me, but now there are two of him._

_No, that's not right. Squinting up at the two figures I realize one is shorter. He's the one pulling Papa off of me. I hear his voice and it reminds me again of Papa's old laugh; soft and kind, only his words are neither of these. He's threatening Papa, I realize, and in the moment I scramble to my feet, desperately trying to pull him away from Papa._

_It seems unlikely that I am successful but Papa manages to break away, only instead of being grateful his eyes bore into me. The emotion in his eyes is anything but love, it is the exact opposite. In a smooth movement he has a poker from the fireplace in hand and he's getting closer. I scream but there are no words, only fear conveyed in my young voice._

"Hotaru!"

With a choked yelp I jerk forward, chest heaving as I become aware of ice water sliding through my hair, mingling with the perspiration and tears on my cheeks. Fearfully I cast a cursory look around my room, fingers pressed against my sternum where I can feel my own heartbeat.

As my gasps give way to steadier breaths my gaze lands on the second figure from my nightmare, a man with corkscrew locks of the darkest ebonies. His almond eyes are pools of hazelnut, thick brows hunched together in concern.

"Norio," I murmur, bringing a shaky hand to feel my left shoulder blade. The burn scar is easy to find; the skin is elevated and if I look in a mirror the white, irregular splotches form the peculiar shape of a firefly. For half a moment I allow my eyes to drift shut, hands dropping to my lap as I attempt to swallow the terror the nightmare always invokes.

"You weren't waking up," he says after a moment, drawing my eyes to his again.

My brows furrow and I frown in spite of the fading red mark on his cheek, prominent in light of his olive skin. Guilt bubbles in my core, settling alongside the phantom of pain as the nightmare retreats to the corners of my mind.

Ducking my head I slip from the covers, swiping at a wet strand of hair determined to mask my vision. Each movement pulls at the tightness in my calves and back but I welcome the soreness. It means I am alive and it reminds me that I am not that beaten little girl, even if she haunts me at night. "I haven't been sleeping well," I say in apology.

"Did the tea stop working?" he asks, lingering at the outskirts of my room. His back is to me as his fingers skim the oak dresser.

Absently I pull my knees to my chest, resting my chin on my knee as I watch him. His frame tenses when he picks up the steel-edged picture frame depicting my mother, her cat-eye green stare only a few shades lighter than my own. In the picture she is younger, no more than mid-twenties, and the elegant curve of her lips forms a content smile. It is a photo taken in secret, Norio holding her in his arms as though they were properly married, or at the least eloped despite her marriage to Darius.

"It never really worked," I confess, unable to maintain his gaze when he shoots an inquisitive look over his shoulder. "It kept me quiet but the nightmares got worse."

He sighs, setting the picture frame down and turning to face me, knuckles white as he grips the edge. "Iris," he starts, the furrow between his brows deepening. I shift so that I meet his gaze, curious at the sound of my actual name. He hardly ever calls me 'Iris,' always 'Hotaru.' "You know that Solstice is volunteering this year."

I nod, nibbling my bottom lip as I remember the conversation I heard in town.

"It's ridiculous. It's idiocy." Esmeralda Douglas whispered as her brows joined her platinum hairline. "The victors dared to eliminate Sergio from volunteering."

"Why?" the dark haired woman placed a slender hand on her wide hip, leaned to one side, and parted her lips as though to speak.

"He supposedly talked against the Capitol." She harrumphed, tossing her head. "I think it was the Canchers-two victors in the family of course they swayed the vote!" Esmeralda narrowed her eyes, challenging the other woman who meekly nodded in agreement.

"And then," she continued, "Darius Hyacinth's daughter was approved to volunteer! Fat chance she'll make it out alive."

"You know there's nothing you can do."

His words bite and I wince involuntarily. It is true, though I have given hours of thought to the idea of volunteering in her place. Once the victors decide who is volunteering for the year, anyone that tries to take that tribute's place disappears. "She can't walk," I mumble, playing with the frayed cuff of my sweatpants. "Darius broke her leg."

"That's not your fault," he argues, crossing his arms in an unusual display of opposition. It is then that I realize just how little he wants me to enter the games.

"Maybe not," I say in a failed attempt to pacify him. Perhaps if I could stop blaming myself for the abuse Solstice endures then I could stop imagining myself in the games instead. Perhaps if half my nightmares were not of her dying in my arms because I could not save her…

Norio's stare intensifies and I shift uncomfortably, looking away. The determination in his gaze does not erase the images that come to mind, but it does allow me a moment of reprieve from his anger. "I can't protect you if you volunteer. You understand what the victors will do." There is a hard edge to his voice, one I have not heard since that night he pulled Darius away from me, and never directed at me.

Sighing I slide my feet off the bed and stand to cross the room, reaching into the drawer of my desk. Norio moves to my side, scowling at the rice paper I take out. The edges show it has been torn out of a notebook at some point and the grainy texture is covered extensively with watery, black ink. It is directed to me in the sloppy scrawl of Solstice.

Iris,

Stop trying to help me. Darius only hurts me more. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. If he kills me, stay away.

The note is abrupt, just as the moment when she shoved the paper at me, her young eyes not yet filled with the hate she now bores into me. Norio's brow creases and his lips form a grimace. He places the paper on the desk and walks off a few feet, running a hand through his hair. "It's not your fault," he repeats and I hear the thin tint of guilt layering his words. "You didn't ask to be born."

"It doesn't matter," I say, offering a wistful smile. Arguing with Norio is not something I enjoy, and arguing on reaping day is not something I'm up to. "She's closer to the stage," I say when he starts to continue the argument, not pacified by my concession. "I know better than to face the victors anyway."

Norio fixes me with a hard stare, doubting the truthfulness of my words. Honestly, I don't blame him for being doubtful. Logically I know that if I volunteer in Solstice's place and I'm not the first one on the stage, the victors will find me. I'm just not so certain I know better than to volunteer anyways. The guilt has travelled with me ever since Solstice gave me that paper five years ago, when she was nine and I was thirteen.

He sighs and faces me. "I just can't take losing another daughter," he murmurs defeatedly, causing me to think back to Aarika. She was eighteen when she went into the games, and she had the same training I have from Norio's extensive skills in combat and stealth. She could have won the games if her fellow careers did not turn on her, cutting her down in cold blood because she disagreed with killing a young child.

It always shocks me when Norio considers me a daughter; it always sends a wave of warmth despite my inability to call him my father. It makes me wish he is the only father I ever knew, even when he is my blood father and the man who has raised me. The taint of that term will always carry with me, and for that reason alone I continue to call him by name. "You aren't going to lose me," I tell him.

He smiles ruefully and once again I get the impression he does not believe me, that he will not believe me no matter what I say. That does not make what I say next any easier, it only makes it harder: he knows me well enough to know I am consumed by guilt, and I will act by my guilt. "The reapings are in a couple hours, I should get ready."

With my room to myself I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar vanilla scent of the room, committing the only characteristic aspect of it to memory. I don't care to remember the dust-cloaked furniture and walls; I don't want to remember the note tucked safely in the desk drawer. This room does not hold fond memories; it is simply where I sleep, where my nightmares haunt me, and where I recovered all those years ago.

When I open my eyes I set about getting ready, crossing the floorboards to the adjoined bathroom and turning the shower head on hot. I discard my clothes by the sink and allow the warmth to envelope me, slowly chasing away the soreness rooted deep in my muscles. Washing my hair I idly watch the foamy, vanilla soap travel down my arms. It is an off-white shade but my mind turns it crimson, the bubbles no longer safe but scorching, like hot blood.

Hyperventilation takes over as I sink to my knees, the water blinding me as the tears and sob wheeze in my chest. It's not real, I think earnestly, sucking in a deeper breath and releasing it through my lips. It's not real. It's not real.

Shutting off the water I sink back to my knees and allow the fear to flee gradually as I contemplate safer topics. Running; I think about running after the reapings. I think about training, about this being my last year in the reapings.

Eventually I am able to stand and I dress myself hurriedly in a simple, celadon-green dress, tossing on shoes and throwing my hair in a loose ponytail. Offering a brief glance in the mirror I study the crescents beneath my eyes; their prominence is accentuated by the light, olive tone of my skin, my deep set eyes are bloodshot.

With a mild shake of the head I walk out of the room, descending the honey-oak stairs to the kitchen where I find Norio with breakfast already fixed. He sets a plate on the table for me and I thank him, sitting down across from him. We eat breakfast in silence and I have to bite my tongue not to apologize to him; to try and explain why I feel like I should take Solstice's place.

"Half an hour," he mumbles, gathering his feet beneath him before he's done with his food. "You should probably head out soon."

I know he's right but I still sit at the table when he leaves the room, finishing my food in a few quick bites before I discard the plate in the sink. Guilt gnaws at my stomach as I recognize the resignation in his behavior, but the guilt only intensifies when I consider letting Solstice enter the games. That's how I know what I must do; by the balancing act of my guilt as I try desperately not to succumb entirely to it. Staying safe will be my downfall, but entering the games will likely kill me.

Not allowing myself another moment to consider my decision I leave the little home I have lived in most of my life, the miniature dust tornadoes swirling around my feet with each step.

The humidity stamps small beads of sweat on bare skin, and even District Two's host, Antonia, is unable to escape the humilifying perspiration. She flutters about, tittering about the excruciating heat and how she wishes to escape the premises immediately.

If my thoughts were not heavy today I would have snickered at the display, but instead I simply isolate myself amongst the other eighteen year olds, considering the chestnut-haired girl in the fourteen year olds' section. Her back is to me but I can see she's wearing an elegantly formed, violet dress that, in my opinion, clings to her young frame too much. As though she can feel my gaze she turns, her own, sky-blue eyes glaring into mine. She has the eyes of Darius, only hers openly display her hatred while his conceal it with a thin veil of merriment.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Antonia says into the microphone, her lavender skin and impossibly bright green eyes offsetting her completely from the white-clad peacekeepers and the mayor who has already delivered his speech. "We present to you our first ever Double Quell," her enthusiasm is reciprocated by some, but as the annual documentary on how the games started most subside into boredom.

I tear my gaze from Solstice and stare fixedly at the screen, not really seeing the poor quality of the clip. The fire and violence does not register, and it is only when Antonia begins speaking again that I fully comprehend that this is my last chance to back out. Each time her heels click against the stage my heart thuds against my sternum.

Her slender fingers dip into the bowl and removes a slip of paper and it is all too soon that she is back at the microphone, reading aloud the name.

Immediately my eyes find Norio's in the crowds and I see he is mouthing 'no' to me, shaking his head. He could have been shouting but I would not have heard it.

"Solstice Hyacinth."

I find the dark-haired girl again, watching as she hobbles out of her section. A girl extends a foot and trips her, leaving Solstice sprawled on the ground, glaring murderously at her offender.

The peacekeepers swarm Solstice, pulling her to her feet despite her bitter protests that she can stand herself. A peacekeeper stationed near my section mutters under her breath and I can just make out what she says. "What were they thinking?"

She scans my section as though wishing someone would take the chance to volunteer and our eyes meet. I am already moving, anticipating her attempt to stop me. It is one reason the local peacekeepers are stationed outside each section: to prevent unapproved volunteers. She makes a show of trying to catch me but it is evident her attempts are half hearted, and anyways, the holler torn from my lungs disproves her feeble efforts.

I am this year's tribute. I am entering the games.

As the peacekeepers escort me by Solstice who is still in the middle of the walkway I find I am unable to look anywhere but her hate filled eyes. In the moment she looks so completely like a rabid animal that I don't know what to expect.

And then she lunges, deadly in spite of her damaged leg as she tears a peacekeeper from the circle, giving her a clear aim to my throat. She doesn't waste any time before her fingers press hard into my neck, effectively cutting off my oxygen.

"He'll kill me," she murmurs fervently as I simply stand there, shell-shocked by her words. "Don't you understand?" she screeches, and for a moment I think even the peacekeepers are too stunned to move as the words escape her lips again. "He'll kill me!"

A burly arm wraps around her waist as the man pulls her away from me. I feel her nails bite into the tender skin but I don't properly notice it yet. "No," I say quietly, shoving away one of the peacekeepers when they start to propel me forward again.

"You can't protect me," she screams, writhing as the man holds her tight into his chest, arms behind her in a hold I know must be painful. Pain does not register in her eyes though, only hatred and fear.

A second peacekeeper detaches from the little circle around me, fingers deftly tilting her head and plunging the tip of a needle into her skin, filling her veins with the pale yellow serum: a sedative. Her body goes limp and the man is nearly carrying her, and yet her eyes do not leave mine. Instead those haunting orbs become child-like, her desperate desire for solace from her abuser like a whip cutting through the flesh, muscle, and bone. Cutting straight to my heart as that stare rips me to shreds. "Kill me," she pleads softly. "Please, Iris, just kill me."

A man appears on either side of me, gloved fingers biting deep into the crease of my elbows as they tug me along, gruffly commanding I go. "I can't," I say, blinking away the tears as the unnamed man carries her away. Her eyes are closed now but that look will never escape my mind. Those wretched words will always play in the back of my mind.

As my feet mechanically ascend the stage, a new emotion borne in my center. It is raw, hot and cold at the same time, and it drives me to look out upon the crowds.

"What's your name, hun?" Antonia whispers, eyeing me skeptically as I refuse to speak, earnestly scanning the crowd of parents and loved ones just outside the sections. He will be closer to the front, I think, but even I do not expect to see him within a hundred yards of the stage. Nonetheless I meet his ragged stare, noting the few differences since I have last seen him.

His dark hair is now streaked with grey and the hollows in his cheeks are more pronounced with age. Perhaps his lips are paler, or perhaps that is simply the contrast to his crimson cheeks, anger causing the flush to spread beneath his skin. One thing is absolutely the same: he wants me dead.

Antonia places cool fingers on my arm, cautioning me, or maybe she is just impatient to get out of the heat still. I do not care as I raise a shaky finger, pointing at Darius for half a moment. My heart stutters even as the challenge touches the air. "I dare you to come see me," I say, tone foreign to my own ears.

District Two is cloaked in silence; a rare display of shock as I turn my eyes to them, silently condemning them just as I now condemn myself for allowing Darius to beat her. Each face is painted with surprise; eyes are widened and mouths are agape. I want to scream at them, Protect her! Don't let him kill her! Instead I swallow my rage and announce my name, stepping back where Antonia designates.

The Cancher boy volunteers almost immediately and makes a show of arrogance, eagerly running to the stage as he takes up his position across from me. Antonia blushes at the charismatic smirk he offers her and tells us to shake hands. It's in the brief flash of wariness when our palms connect that I recognize the falseness of his demeanor. He squeezes my hand too tightly in a weak display of dominance and as we are guided back to the the visitation rooms he shoots a poorly aimed elbow at my side.

When the peacekeeper directs me to a steel door I take a breath, releasing it slowly as I step in, embracing the cool rush of air as I fully escape the humidity outside. I barely have time to notice the room before his voice invades my hearing.

His face is no longer a beet red, but instead it has returned to his typically pale pallor, his eyes sparking like a newly started fire. His insults bounce off me harmlessly as I study instead the thin tremble of his arms, his self-control wavering each moment I remain silent. In a little under a minute he has exhausted his supply of obscenities, leaving himself breathless from shouting.

"Are you done?" I ask, instigating the lunge for my neck much as Solstice did no more than ten minutes earlier. His technique is sloppy as he relies entirely upon his rage and I duck, snapping my elbow into his ribcage. In the same moment I sweep his legs from beneath him, my strength stemming from pent up anger and burning guilt. My fingers curl into the lapel of his jacket and I press him against the wall, forearm against his neck though I do not apply much pressure. I have no desire to reciprocate that dreadful night, even if I am the attacker now.

Darius snarls, thrashing against me uselessly as I lean in as much as I dare to. I do not cut off his breathing as I want to hear his response. I want his word that he will not touch Solstice, even if I cannot trust it. "You're going to leave Solstice alone," I tell him, deadly calm. "If I ever find out that you hurt her again I will come back and kill you."

He laughs bitterly, trying again to shove me away. "You'll die in the bloodbath," he growls, his breath putrid in our proximity.

"Say it," I snap, duly aware a cool hand rests on my shoulder. I'm not sure how much time I have left but I want to-need to-hear him say it. "Say you'll leave her alone."

The man scoffs, bucking against me again. This time I do release him, taking a step back as he straightens his clothing, the ferocity in his glare turning to grim amusement. "I'll do whatever I want to my daughter," he spats. "And there's not a damn thing you can do about it, Iris, 'cause you're gonna die." His smile is elusive, his arrogance sapped when there is a click behind me, the sound of metal connecting with metal. I recognize it as the sound of a handgun but I cannot afford to see who it is aimed at.

"Then I'll see you in Hell," I murmur as the door opens and Darius is pulled away, maintaining what little dignity he has as he escapes the premises.

I have a moment of reprieve that I take to see the second figure in the room, the woman that stood outside my section. She offers a remorseful smile as she replaces the weapon at her hip, retreating to her corner of the room. Never before have I heard of a peacekeeper being stationed in the visitation room, but then, it is not every year that drama like today's unfurls.

Absently I wonder what the District has made of me, calling out my abuser as well as Solstice's. I wonder what the victors make of it.

"Hotaru."

"I'm sorry," I say immediately, finding comfort as his arms wrap around me. "I'm sorry," I repeat, squeezing my eyes shut to lock the tears away. "She would've died, but now Darius," he pulls back enough so he can reach in his jacket pocket, pulling out a thick envelope. He presses it into my hand with a mild shake of the head.

"It's okay," he tells me, glancing surreptitiously at the peacekeeper before he pitches his voice lower. "Read that later," he tells me, emotion leaking into his tone as I meet his tear filled gaze. "It's okay," he repeats, embracing me again.

"You're going to come back," he says when our time is almost up. Each second feels like a hook tearing into my skin and pulling me every direction. We can both feel it; the time dwindling down to a few final moments. "I won't let him hurt her," he promises, and I wish I could find the words to convey my gratitude. Not just for that promise but for everything. Every moment he's been a father to me.

The peacekeepers are at the door, telling Norio his time is up, and he sighs, knowing better than to resist. "I love you, Hotaru," he says, offering a small smile.

"I love you, Dad." I do not hesitate this once, and even as the word feels odd on my tongue I manage to return his smile. The door closes and I deflate, sinking into the nearest chair as I run a hand through my hair. Weariness tugs at my limbs and it takes more effort than it should to glance up at the peacekeeper.

Her gaze has never left my frame and now I return the scrutiny, arching an inquisitive brow when I realize her eyes are not on mine but fixated on my neck. Tentatively I press my fingers there and realize Solstice drew blood. The warmth is sticky and I frown, idly studying the scarlet on the pads of my fingers.

"You'll want to clean that when you get on the train," she cautions and we both look up when the door opens again. Wearily I wonder if it is another visitor, but instead it is another peacekeeper ready to take to me to the train. He is curt and gruff as he places his hand at the small of my back, pushing me forward as I join Antonia and the Cancher boy.

Our trek to the train is brief and despite Antonia's beseechment that I wait until after dinner I seek the isolation of my room anyways, barely noticing the extravagance as I collapse into a mercifully dreamless sleep.


	3. Sorry

**Chapter Three**

_[Sorry - Daughtry]_

**|Iris|**

_Hotaru: I wish I was strong enough to tell you in person, but if you're reading this letter you likely already know this. I am not the man you thought me to be; in fact some days I wonder if I even am a man any longer. There are so many things I regret, but three things I will never regret: Aarika, falling in love with your mother, and you._

My dark hair hangs in wet ringlets about my face, slowly soaking through the silken texture of the shirt I tossed on. Sleep clouds my thoughts, pressing against my skull like the steady headache that pounds behind my eyes. When I woke up memories of yesterday plagued my mind but I have not considered yesterday since I got out of the shower. If I allow myself to contemplate my actions the only thing that surfaces is the desperate look in Solstice's eyes.

There is a knock at the door and I sigh, sliding off the too comfortable bed and opening the door to reveal a man with wispy, soft black hair poking from beneath an absurd, checkered nightcap. For a moment I simply stare at the hat, curious who this man is and what would possess him to wear something so childish.

"'S about time ya woke up, lil' lady," he greets, eyes flashing with amusement as he turns his back to me and walks off.

For half a moment I stare after him, bemused by the peculiarity of the encounter before I close the door and tread barefoot down the hall. When I reach the end a steel door opens automatically and I enter into the main compartment of the train.

On one side is a living room area with cherry black furniture and two suede couches. There is a rather large television centered in front of the couches. Adjoining this little area is the predominantly marble-based kitchenette and dining area where the man is perched on a stool, a plate of syrupy pancakes before him.

"Who're you?" I ask, settling across from him where a second plate rests. A smirk dangles on his lips as he raises his cup.

"Enrique," he says, making a face when he tastes the coffee, setting the mug down quick enough to jostle the steaming liquid onto his hand. He curses, pulling his hand back sharply. "'m yer trainer."

Once again my eyes travel to his nightcap, then to his clumsy efforts to clean up the spilled beverage. Beyond the whimsicality of his demeanor I see the shadows beneath his eyes and the wariness in his glances. His wiry frame is taut even when he stills, eyes returning the scrutiny.

"That was quite a show out there," he says after a moment, leaning back in his chair. I shift uncomfortably when his gaze surveys me, raising back to my eyes before fixing on the slivers on my neck. Heat prickles beneath my skin but I don't allow my attention to waver, instead I abandon breakfast and allow my hands to rest on the table. "Yer sister didn't 'preciate what ya did."

Words are not fathomable as the memory of yesterday blossoms, accompanied by a flare of pain and sorrow.

"Reckon there's more t' it than glory," his words are soft and for a brief moment his eyes reflect my own sorrow, as though the gleam is borne from a mirror just beneath the surface. "Roman wouldn't say much, jus' said ya ain't a career."

"I'm not a career," I agree absentmindedly as I attempt to place a face to the name Roman. It is one I know belongs to a victor, one of the older ones I would guess. I'm almost surprised a victor agreed to come at all. "I can hold my own though."

Enrique nods, making a sound in the back of his throat as he fidgets with his silverware. He studies the syrup as it trickles back to the plate, flicking his attention from the idle task to me, and back again. "So why'd ya volunteer?"

"Guilt," I say before I really process what I'm admitting. His shock is almost as formidable as my own inquisition. I can feel his stare like a caress and its intensity sends a chill down my spine, bringing warmth to my cheeks.

"Care t' elaborate?" he asks, a wry note weaving into his tone.

_No, _I think immediately, levelling my gaze to his. There is curiosity in his face as he twirls the fork, his fingers seeming to move on their own accord. With a sigh I glance away, tracing the floral pattern of the place mats. "She's too young," I tell him.

I don't expect him to believe me and his snort confirms his disbelief. "An' yer not?"

"Everyone is too young to die in the games."

The sad smile that touches his lips matches the knowing look in his eyes. "Aye," he says, stretching back as his fork clatters to the plate. "Get up," he tells me as he scoots back in his own chair, gathering his feet beneath him in a fluid motion.

For half a moment I wonder whether or not I hear him correctly, but when I glance up, brows furrowed, I see a thin blade in his hand. His expression is empty of all humor and his once mystifying gaze becomes opaque and haunted. When I do not get up he lunges forward anyways, allowing little time for me to properly gather myself.

In my attempts to defend myself I clatter back with the stool, scowling up at him as my vision blurs. I want to ask what's possessed his right mind but words are useless as he tries to strike again, each motion truly aimed as though he plans to kill me.

By the time he is coming towards me for a third downward slash I step in, weaving by his defense and torquing his arm behind him. It's a simple hold and I have every confidence he will break free; how he does catches me completely off guard though.

It's a maneuver I've never seen before and it ends with a biting pain in my wrist, forcing me to move the direction he wants. His strength is superior to mine and I end up with my back to his chest, the knife at my throat. I am quick to place an unfortunate barrier between the blade and the tender skin of my neck, hissing as Enrique presses harder into my palm.

His breath quivers by my ear and I bite my lip to repress the shiver down my spine. "Not as good as ya claim, eh, girl?"

I take advantage of what little space is between us and jerk my elbow back into his stomach, smiling in spite of the adrenaline that thrums through my veins. The sliver of fire in my palm barely registers as I twist my hip, dropping to my knee as I hurl him over my shoulder. My technique is sloppy and it causes the blade to drag deeper into my calloused flesh.

Enrique releases the hilt, mercifully preventing further damage, but he does not stop. Instead he sweeps my leg from beneath me and I fall to my knees. The hilt is slippery in my hands as I pin him as well as I can, long enough for me to bring the knife toward his heart. Just as the tip of the blade ruffles the flannel of the man's shirt I pull back, discarding the weapon to the side.

In our proximity I can see the silver thatches in his gunmetal blue stare and the scarlet ink that colors his cheeks. I can feel the gentle swell of his muscles beneath my fingertips and it is that sensation that draws me back. I scramble to my feet, offering a hand to help him up.

He props himself up on his elbows and smirks, flipping his hair out of his eyes. "Helpin' a dead man up?" he drawls, taking the gesture all the same. With his feet beneath him I release his fingers and turn my back, running a hand through my damp hair.

He snorts. "An' now yer turning yer back t' a dead man."

Even as I hear him I do not expect him to place a hand on my shoulder. I don't expect to see him so close when I spin on heel, nor do I expect to see the gleam of pride in his gaze and the quirk of his lips. "Ya did good," he tells me, breath tickling my cheek with each syllable.

Though his hand drops to his side I can feel the emanating heat from his body, mirrored in his stare as I start to make my way to straighten the stool, shooting a weary look at my injured hand.

"Ya could use some work though," he continues, folding his arms over his chest. "Yer a scrapper but if I hadn't let go of that knife…" he grimaces, allowing his words to trail off.

"And I've got a month to get better," I say, stooping down to pick the stool up. I know that he's only being honest, but as each moment passes the adrenaline dwindles and the rivets of pain to intensify. I simply do not feel like continuing a spur of the moment training session.

"Again," he says, and before I can get out a protest he smirks, challenging a repeat of our last bout's beginning.

This time he does not have a weapon but I quickly find he is equally skilled in hand-to-hand combat. He feints low, his punches offering minimal pullback for me to react on.

For a long moment I simply evade each strike, considering the tension in his arms, the tell-tale twitch of his lips before he punches, and his nearly unpredictable combinations. His speed is equal to mine while his strength and stamina surpasses me.

When he throws an elbow I evade in, just out of reach, and snatch his wrist. In a quick motion I duck beneath his arm and pull his torqued wrist to my hip, eliciting a murmured curse.

The apology hangs on my tongue but before it can escape he collapses my knee beneath me, freeing himself from my hold as alarm overwhelms me. I manage to break my fall but he is close behind, digging his knees into my sides.

His weight presses into my abdomen, gradually whisking away my lung capacity as he pins my arms at my sides. Enrique's stare becomes hazy as his fingers wrap around my neck. His grip is lighter than if he were serious but the ribbons of fear slither through my veins nonetheless. My breathing hitches and memories float to the forefront of my mind.

I am four years old again and Darius is trying to kill me.

"Think," Enrique snaps, uncertainty gone as soon as it appears.

The roughness of his voice is enough to jar me out of the memory, but the ghost of it still tinges my skin; the terror still circulates my veins. "Stop," I gasp, blinking away the burning in the backs of my eyes.

My command is echoed by a deep, incredulous voice, but Enrique does not relax his hold. Instead his fingers wrap around tighter, his brows furrowing together as my vision becomes spotty. I try to say his name but words are not possible.

"She knows how t' get outta this," he argues as the man I am now certain is Roman threatens him.

_Not this, _I think, senselessly prying at his arms. I try to thrust him off of me, kneeing his back, and punching wherever I can reach, but each attempt just reminds me my air is running out. How long has it been? A minute? More? His weight is too much for me to displace him and each moment is only made worse by his weight pressing into me.

In a flash his body is torn from me, and I blink to clear my vision. I can hear Enrique and Roman arguing, but their words are distorted by the echo of my heartbeat and it is several moments before I can properly make out what they are saying.

"Ya have t' leave me alone with her eventually," Enrique protests, his tone far from reasonable as he crosses his arms over his chest. For a moment I picture him as an overgrown child throwing a tantrum.

"Why so you can kill her?"

My attention flickers to Roman, his yellowed skin a sculpted canyon of wrinkles and scars; a particularly prominent, white line stretches on either side of his mouth. Anger flares in his caesious glare, his muscular frame just beginning to deteriorate with age.

As though I am watching an interview my eyes hone in on Enrique whose strength seems to have fled him. His gaze drops and he wrings his hands behind his back silently. A wrinkle forms between his brows when he shakes his head.

"I'm fine," I speak up quietly, not entirely certain if it is the truth as the sharp pain has now travelled up my arm and each time I move discomfort twinges in my neck. "Roman," I say sharply to get his attention.

He narrows his eyes and clenches his teeth as though he is angry at me for speaking up. "Are you sure?" he asks slowly, studying me for some sign of deceit.

I nod, accepting the hand Enrique proffers. My eyes do not leave Roman's though as the older man contemplates whether or not it is safe to leave me alone with Enrique. It is something I question myself but I keep this to myself.

"Fine," he mutters, shooting a final glare at Enrique before striding away, his gait awkward as his left foot drags a little each step. I watch him until the automatic door closes behind him, and then I turn to face Enrique.

"Are ya ok?" he asks, rubbing his neck uncomfortably.

Glaring at him I walk back to the stool, seating myself before I snatch a handful of napkins and press them into my hand. In moments the embroidered material is tinged with scarlet and I have to replace them several more times before the slice finally stops bleeding. "I told you to stop," I snap, the uncontrolled anger in my tone foreign to my own ears.

Something in me has snapped since yesterday; something that has unleashed all my pent up anger and sorrow. The war of emotions newly borne strikes a new thread of fear in me. "An' if this were th' arena-"

"It's not," I interrupt, searching his face wearily.

"Ya gotta practice like it is, Iris." The use of my name snatches my attention, his absolute belief of the words offering some inclination to forgive him.

At the least I am too tired to argue with him as silence descends upon us, masking the tension between us as we eat.

The silence is disturbed only by the sound of heels _clicking _and Antonia's capitol accent as she begins a lecture on our 'irresponsible' and 'rude' behavior, chastising Enrique especially.

"You're both lucky I'll be with you to teach you some proper etiquette," she finishes with a huff, tapping her toe expectantly. I bite my lip to keep from smirking but by Enrique's snort I'm willing to venture I'm unsuccessful.

"Two weeks in hell," Enrique mutters, taking a large bite of food before he speaks again. "Shouldn't ya be naggin' Mason and the boy?"

Antonia makes a sound in the back of her throat, indigence in the quirk of her mouth. "Mason has some manners, mind you."

Enrique rolls his eyes. "Aye, go swoon over 'im an' leave me alone."

Red paints the woman's cheeks as she turns up her nose and flounces away. My scoff is mirrored by Enrique's quiet chuckle, the tension between us alleviated through a dual distaste for Capitol etiquette.

It is in that moment that I begin to question Enrique's demeanor. He does not possess the Capitol eloquence and finesse the men and women display, and his loose twang is unlike any accent I have ever heard. Enrique is rough around the edges and his mystifying stare contains a depth that should not be possible for his years.

Without my permission my gaze lowers to the pale skin of his chest, his navy flannel shirt coming undone to reveal his strength. Staining the material are splotches of my blood and when I look down at my own shirt and pants I find my clothes are in worse shape.

Nibbling on my lower lip I return his unwavering stare, shifting as I realize I am not the only one with a wandering gaze. "So how'd they pick the trainers?" I ask quietly, more to eliminate the silence than out of urgent curiosity.

He opens his mouth then shakes his head with a small, ironic smile. "Nah," he murmurs, pushing away from the table to leave. "That's a question for another time," he tells me as he starts to retreat to his room.

I find myself idly watching him leave, arching a brow when he stops, looking over his shoulder earnestly. "Iris…" he scowls, seeming to struggle with the words he wants before he sighs, giving a small shake of his head. "Nah, nevermind," and with that he leaves me alone to ponder my thoughts.


	4. Broken Girl

**Chapter Four**

_[Broken Girl - Matthew West]_

**|Iris|**

_First and foremost, if you are reading this letter, then either I have died and your mother has given this to you, or you are entering the games. I can only hope it is not the latter that has prompted the truths this letter offers._

_I have to start from the beginning, so I apologize for my wordiness. You have questioned the peculiarity of my accent before and you've seen through my vague stories; I've seen it in your eyes. I am sorry for lying to you then, I would not have lied had it not kept you safe. I can only offer the truth now as repentance._

_I am not from District 2 as I've told you; I am from the Capitol. I did not attend the academy in the Districts, instead I attended an academy specializing in the arts of espionage and assassination. From a young age I have been an extension of the Capitol; a means to an ends for troublesome characters and potential rebels._

The first wisps of sleep begin to escape as the words of Norio's letter flicker through my mind. I have read over the first page several times, waiting for the knowledge to sink in before I force myself to continue reading. Acceptance has not yet come, however; so I tuck the papers back in the package and place it under my pillow while I go to get ready.

Norio had lied to me for years, and yet my mind cannot equate the betrayal of his lies to any particular emotion. Instead I am numbly processing his confession, tossing the words _espionage _and _assassination_ in my head. The idea of Norio being an assassin seems absurd, but I can recognize his handwriting anywhere. The letter is even characteristic to his eloquent speech and articulation.

I sigh as the too hot water massages my sore muscles, slowly working out the aches from yesterday morning. I have not left my room since then, and no one has tried bothering for which I am immensely grateful. Facing the Cancher boy or Enrique–God forbid Antonia–is just not something I can tolerate with my thoughts buzzing about.

But it seems my good fortune has dwindled as the intricately fashioned, mahogany door quakes with the abuse from the other side. I slip out of the shower, turning the water off as I snatch a towel, eyeing the knob to ensure it does not begin to turn as I tuck the long, white towel beneath my arms, holding it tightly to me.

I assume that the person invading my room is Antonia and I sigh, wishing silently I would have had the thought to snatch clothes to bring to the adjoined bathroom. "Antonia, I didn't oversleep so why-" I say just loud enough for her to hear as I open the door, expecting to see the woman's too large eyes. My sentence breaks off when I do not see the Capitol woman, but instead a shorter, stockier figure.

He curses, stumbling back a few steps as his cheeks flush with color, his eyes studying the ground when he has the thought to.

I can feel heat pool in my cheeks as well, my back to the door as I look anywhere but at the man.

"Clothes," he mutters, turning his back with a shaky laugh. "I thought you were clothed."

It seems like an absurd comment and I find myself smirking in spite of his discomfort. "You're the one in my room," I say, walking by him to get to my closet.

He swears again and when I arch a brow at him I find his eyes are closed. "Still not clothed," he mumbles.

"Enrique, just leave the room," I point out, tossing a pair of jeans and a tank top to the bed. I rifle through the drawers for a moment before dressing in undergarments, managing to pull on my jeans beneath the towel. As much as I don't want to drop the towel if I'm going to put a shirt on I have to, and the man seems incapable-or unwilling-to leave.

"I came t' talk t' ya," he protests, crossing his arms. This morning he's not wearing pajamas but a simple, black t-shirt and dark pants with an unreasonable amount of pockets.

I check to make sure his eyes are still closed before I swiftly discard the towel, throwing on the white, criss-cross tank top. "Alright," I say, "I'm clothed," I smile to myself as I search for a jacket.

"'bout time," Enrique grumbles and my smile widens as I snatch the towel and throw it at him. His exclamation goes unnoticed as I find a jacket with an inside pocket large enough to hide the envelope. It's leather with a cotton interior that zips out and I toss it on, tucking the package away wordlessly.

When I face him I tilt my head to the right, curiosity sparked by the look of guilt in his stare. "It's alright, Enrique," I tell him, ignoring the tingling sensation in my stomach . "Really, it's not a big deal," I continue when he doesn't seem convinced.

A furrow between his brows forms and he cuts the distance between us in a few swift strides, his fingers half outstretched before he shakes his head, looking away. "'m sorry."

Uncertain what to make about his abrupt seriousness I glance in the full-length mirror, gathering that there is more to his remorse than seeing me as he did. What I find is a slight brushing of discoloration on my neck; it's mild enough that I didn't notice it when I looked in the mirror and I know it must weigh on his conscious to have noticed it from a distance.

I shrug and am about to say something when the door opens to reveal a man who looks to be in his mid-twenties with deep, chestnut locks that curl at the nape of his neck. His skin is a light bronze, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed to his angular cheekbones and jawline. "Sure you don't want to trade tributes, Enrique?"

The flirtatious inflection in his tone sends a wave of discomfort, the charming smirk he flashes at me only adds to the tension in the room. He comes up beside me and raises his hand, trailing his fingers across my brow and down my cheek. The surprise quickly wears off and I slap his hand away, glaring. "Don't," I warn.

For each step away I take he takes a step closer, until my back is against the wall and he's leaning in, murmuring against my ear. "You should enjoy my company while you can."

In that moment I take advantage of his distracted state, tucking my heel and twisting my hip to collapse his leg beneath him. He topples back but is on his feet in the same moment, no longer allured but instead angered. "He'll kill you," he says softly, his gravelly voice emphasized in the quietness. "The boy, he'll kill you himself."

I remain silent, studying him as he shoots a triumphant smirk at Enrique. "Look at your tribute," he scoffs, giving a melodramatic shake of his head. "Already a broken girl. No fun at all."

The man shoots a final glance at me before leaving the room. I look sidelong at Enrique and are an inquisitive brow. "Mason," he tells me bitterly. His mouth is set in a grim line and his eyes narrow in the direction the man retreated. "Stay away from 'im."

It's a peculiar request-warning more than anything-but I find myself trusting him. "Alright."

"Not ever," he says, searching my eyes with a pained look. "He ain't good."

Scowling I tilt my head, chewing my lip as I watch the emotion circulate his stare, his seriousness underlied by a story I wonder if I will ever hear. After a moment I nod. "What'd you come to talk about?"

And like that all solemnity is erased. "We're at th' Capitol. Roman and Antonia will spend th' first two weeks with th' boy and Mason, th' latter two weeks with us."

"So where are we going?" I ask, wondering how the smaller details have managed to escape the forefront of my mind until now.

Enrique gestures for me to go ahead and wordlessly I do, glancing questioningly at him when we reach the corridor that allows us to leave. There are peacekeepers waiting for us and two stand on either side of us, one in front of me and one behind him so that we are enclosed. "I have a training center in my home so that's where we'll be staying."

If the peacekeepers surrounding us faze him it does not show when I look over my shoulder. In fact his expression does not change until we are ushered into the sleek, black vehicle that I hear him call a limousine. The seats are ostentatious but he ends up perched beside me anyways as the peacekeepers crowd in after us.

Enrique's shoulder presses into mine, our legs inadvertently tangle together as the armored men and women stretch out, impervious to the concept of personal space. "So where are Mason and the Cancher boy staying?"

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, tensing. "They've got another place t' stay." I feel him looking at me but I keep my eyes forward, studying the reflective glass that separates us from the driver.

Our reflections are distorted but his disheveled hair does not change, and the intensity of his stare does not lessen as our eyes involuntarily connect. A reflection does not allow me to see any emotion though so I eventually close my eyes, leaning back into the stiff cushions.

"We won't get there for a couple hours," he mumbles, relaxing a degree as well.

Even knowing that it will be awhile before we reach his home, I do not expect to drift off so easily. Not with the peacekeepers watching our every move; hearing our every word. I don't really want to sleep, not since last night offered a glimpse of my old nightmares. I don't want to, but I find myself falling into a quiet sleep.

"Iris, wake up."

Mumbling, I blink up at Enrique and when I realize I fell asleep against his shoulder I pull back, apologizing. He offers a small smile, allowing me half a moment to see we've stopped at his home and the peacekeepers are no longer crowding us, but waiting outside impatiently.

Enrique starts to slide out of the limousine and I follow blearily. It's strange that sleep causes my lids to droop and my movements sluggish. "There's a perimeter barrier at a four mile radius," he tells me, ignoring the peacekeepers that slip back into the vehicle. I am relieved that they will not be staying.

"So is the Capitol watching?" I ask as the last wisps of weariness escape when my eyes take in the grandeur building. A brief glance could never do the home justice, and in spite of my general distaste of Capitol extravagance the home is a sight to see.

Enrique shakes his head, closing the door behind me. "Nah, they can't hear or see us." He wanders a few steps away, allowing me a moment to take in his home.

As though the house is physically divided there are two parts: a training center that would put the academies back in the districts to shame, and an almost domestic side. Directly in front of the front door is the staircase that leads to the second floor.

My feet carry me to the entrance of the training center where the ceiling is adorned with pull-up bars, drop-down targets, and is decorated by artificial tree limbs connected to trunks in the corners of the room. I realize then that the two-stories of the house are greatly filled by the training area, where the second story is non-existent and the training center ventures into the second floor. At the highest point of the ceiling it must be at least thirty feet tall.

In a far corner there is a pool area but the water is far from calm, instead waves disturb the quiet of the room, as though Enrique had a vicious current river in his own house. Not far from the pool there's the first tree trunk, a thick tree with various handholds and footholds. A lower limb hangs out over the water within reaching distance and I can imagine the training exercise there.

There is a rope climbing area with a net that it appears one would have to leap to by the rope that hangs down, and not far away there is a matted area. In a cart next to that area there are a variety of weapons, some sharp and some blunted. Not far away there is an aiming range in addition to a hand-held weapon I've only seen in older texts: a hand-gun.

There are a variety of machines that I can only guess at their purpose, and then there are the simpler areas; areas focusing on survival and fitness as opposed to actual combat.

"You have thirty days to train," Enrique says behind me, a peculiar note to his voice as I turn around. "Today we need to talk."

I duck my head and follow him as he goes to the domestic side of the home, allowing only brief attention to the rooms we pass; the living room is the closest adjoining room at it's simply decorated. The carpet is neutral to the sofas placed in front of a television only a degree smaller than the one on the train. On the walls there are photos that I don't get the chance to inspect properly, though one large one hangs over the fireplace. It appears to be a family portrait and I think I can pick our Enrique; a twenty-year old version of him surrounded by who I can only assume to be his parents and siblings.

When we pass through the dining area, lightened by the intricate chandelier and pristine, marble table and chair set Enrique turns, shooting me an exasperated glance. "Keep up," he says. "No one's gonna jump from th' shadows."

I wonder duly what my expression portrayed for him to think I was wary of the home rather than in shock at the extravagance. District 2 certainly possesses its flare of extravagance–for a District, at least–but Norio was not one to dwell on materialistic objects. We lived with what we needed and that was sufficient.

I find myself longing for that simplistic lifestyle as Enrique finally stops in the kitchen, digging through the cupboards until he takes out two cups. He pours a fizzy, yellowish drink in both and hands one of the cups to me. I take it and regard it warily but take a sip when he does. The liquid has a sour tang to it and the fizz stings the back of my throat. When I take a drink again I find the burning subsides and the taste slowly becomes bearable.

"Soda," Enrique says as he leans against the counter, setting the cup down beside him.

I cradle the cup in my hands and take small sips from it, looking around the kitchen to find it's a small, comfortable area. Counters wrap around most of the room and a stove is shoved in one corner where the oak cabinets finally end. A sink basin is incorporated in the island counter than I lean against; it's a long, rectangular bar-like counter with several places for platters to offer food. Right now there are a variety of sweets available, but I bring my attention back to Enrique instead.

He studies me pensively, pursing his lips as though he's considering what to say first. His stare, originally unnerving, has already lost its intimidation. I recognize the scrutiny as a habit he possesses rather than intent to strike fear in someone.

"So," he starts, sighing. "Might as well get this outta th' way now. Edana Eulacias is my sister. Th' gamemaker's my nephew."

What comfort I have gained around him diminishes immediately. The tension in my shoulders is instantaneous, as is the unsteady thrumming of my heart.

"Hey, don't be lookin' a' me like that," he protests indignantly. "I ain't yer enemy jus' 'cause kin are."

His protest does little to put me at ease but I force my expression to one of indifference, waiting for further explanation. After a moment he sighs again, chin resting on his collarbones as he seems to contemplate how to neutralize his statement.

"We're…estranged," he says finally. "Roman said Norio's yer dad."

I nod and he continues. "He ever tell ya 'bout the Capitol–where he came from?"

A spark of betrayal registers but I push it at bay and take a breath in an attempt to measure my voice. "I just found out recently."

Enrique's surprise is short-lived. "Right," he says. "'im an' I worked together. He saved my life more times 'an I can count." As he speaks his expression falls, brows furrowing when he takes a breath. "He couldn't take it. Assassination was killing 'im, so I helped him get out th' first chance we got."

"Thing was, he wasn't s'pposed t' make it outta the Capitol. It's th' code o' Assassins: _once an assassin, always an assassin._" Enrique snorts and a sad gleam enters his eyes. "Blood in; blood out. I was s'pposed t' kill 'im, but instead I helped him. Edana was furious enough t' put me on trial." He does not say how he survived but I do not ask.

"Ultimately, th' trainers were picked 'cause we did somethin' to piss off Edana." Enrique starts to say something else then seems to think better of it. Instead he takes a long drink from his soda and sets the empty cup unceremoniously loud on the counter. "We're assigned t' a district, then th' two trainers are s'pposed to pick their tribute. Th' reason 'm yers is 'cause I knew Mason was gonna be th' other assigned t' District 2. I'd already decided I wasn't 'bout t' let 'im train a female. Then I found out yer Norio's daughter."

Enrique gives me a moment to process all that he's said, but I've already processed it. The sorrow in his eyes is genuine; the pain of memory that washes over his face is real. There is not a doubt in my mind that he has told me the truth, all it does is bring Norio's stories to light.

When I finally raise my gaze I find nothing but trust thrumming through my mind, if for no other reason than the idea that he helped Norio–saved Norio–at one point in their twisted history together. "Iris," he says slowly. "Why'd ya freeze up yesterday?"

I look away, instead turning my attention to the forgotten cup in my hand. I watch in false interest as the liquid bubbles on its own accord. "My father tried killing much the same way," I say after another moment.

Enrique shakes his head, eyes a bit wider than normal. "Norio wouldn't do that," he says determinedly.

I nod in agreement. "Norio _is _my dad, but my mother is married to another man; Darius. The girl I volunteered for is my half-sister, we have the same mother, but Darius abuses her just as he used to me." I squeeze my eyes shut as though it can remove the memory bubbling to the surface of thought, but I know there is nothing I can do to stop it. The flashback is inevitable whenever I talk about it.

"One night he found out I wasn't _his _and things got worse. He wouldn't touch her because she was pregnant, so instead he decided to kill me." I force the words to come even as the image of him beating me looms. It is as though I'm watching a movie on the back of my eyelids; envisioning the entire scene of abuse as though I am not really there, only a bystander.

"Kicking, punching, burning, and choking–there was little he wouldn't do. I was four and couldn't understand what was going on. All I knew was that he was angry and my mother left when she realized she couldn't stop him. I thought he was going to kill me–I still think he would have if my mother hadn't found Norio in time."

"Darius was choking me when Norio got there." I wonder now if Norio would have killed Darius then. It goes against the Norio I have known all my life, but knowing he used to be an assassin puts a spin on that that I can't help but contemplate. How different would things be now if Norio had?

I shake the idea off. Whether things would be different now or not is irrelevant. "Norio got him away from me and got me out of the house. He tried to get my mother to come but she refused–she was scared of what Darius might do if she left. Norio said I was lucky to live through the night."

I sigh and look up at Enrique, silently cursing the unshed tears in my eyes as I find the pity in his. "That's why I froze up," I finish needlessly, straightening from my perch.

He studies me, his gaze clear as day as he tilts his head. I recognize the emotion tinting his stare as understanding and I find an overwhelming wave of relief. His lips quirk and as he starts to walk out of the room, silently beckoning me to follow him, I find each step as easier.

Enrique is the first person to know the full story, I muse. A small smile toys at my lips and I shake my head. I have known the man for two days and already he knows my deepest secret.

It's funny how imminent death does that; makes you open up. Makes you trust someone you just met. Makes you spill your darkest fears like black ink against a white canvas.


	5. Secret Agent Man

**Chapter Five**

_Secret Agent Man [Johnny Rivers]_

|**Wyvern|**

"What do you mean you couldn't find Norio Vu?" Mother sits at a mahogany desk, her hair teased to her ideal of perfection. Each moment her cherry-colored lips part a screech is emitted and I am almost positive the guards outside have heard her. She is beyond caring, however; as anger glitters in her eyes and hatred bubbles in place of blood.

"The Peacekeepers could not find Norio; he's disappeared." I attempt to reason, but it is in this moment that I truly wonder if she wants me dead. It seems absolutely plausible as she gathers her feet beneath her in an elegant movement. Her lips twist unattractively as she walks around the desk, standing in front of me. "Inexcusable," she snaps, crossing her arms. "You have a week to find him. I don't care if you have to go to District 2 yourself."

Exasperation coils in my chest and I repress the urge to throw my hands up. "There's an interview in an hour, a banquet after that, and footage _I'm _responsible for. Norio is _one _man," I say, pitching my voice as respectfully as I can. Despite my best efforts even I can hear the petulance in my voice. "Do you want the games or-" I don't finish my statement before she slaps me.

Anger flares in my center and I have to take a step back to avoid retaliation. I will _not _hit a woman, even if it is the infuriating woman in front of me. Even if a burning mark glares back at her where her deceivingly delicate hand connected with my cheek.

A wry thought crosses my mind but I am quick to file it away. It will not help my arrangements if I do not monitor every thought, word, and action I make. "I want both, Wyvern, and therefore you will give me _both._"

I duck my head like the good, loyal knight I'm supposed to be and repress the urge to salute in spite of the analogy I've learned to appreciate. "Right," I say, turning on heel as I depart her office. _At least if I set out tomorrow I'll avoid her for a couple days_.

**|Iris|**

"Since there's a month allotted for training th' preliminaries are done in three days," Enrique says absently. It has been two days since we started training, and since then my muscles have become a near permanent mass of soreness.

The first day of training we worked on climbing. Enrique pushed me through speed drills, seeing how quickly I could climb the trees and testing my ability to surpass the obstacle course with the ropes, nets, and tree limbs combined. As a result of several falls that day I have a fully blossomed bruise on my right knee, and bruising in the palms of my hands.

Yesterday Enrique tested my ability with a sword, determining I needed a great deal of work before I could hold my own well enough. For the entirety of that day he took me through _katas _and then had me perform several combinations on the dummies using a blunted weapon. That evening we sparred, earning me the deep bruise on my shoulder and the concussion that leveraged lighter exercises today.

Today we have worked exclusively on swimming exercises. Considering before today I did not know how to swim I feel I am excelling, despite Enrique's sharp comments that tell me otherwise. He's reached a point that cursing is frequent and threatening to drown me himself is an old concept that only ends in laughter.

I nod in response to his comment. It makes sense, why would there be an additional time period for training when it would pale in comparison to the training we've received otherwise?

Absently I nibble on one of the sandwiches I made for our lunch, listening as he explains the order of the preliminaries. First the chariot rides, then the scored demonstration, and then the interviews. It has been this way since the very beginning, and if it were not all for a pageant of death then I would be amazed the system has not changed in all these years.

"So they've still put us at a disadvantage," I say, reaching for my glass. When he arches an inquisitive brow and gestures for me to continue I duck my head. "We don't know how the others are doing, so there's virtually no room for alliances."

Enrique nods, seeming to consider that for a moment as he chews. "That's th' point," he says after a while. "They expect th' careers t' be with th' careers, and for everyone else t' be on their own."

"I'm not working with the careers," I say before I really consider what I am saying. Enrique and I have not discussed alliances. We really haven't even addressed whether or not we'll work together when it comes time for the games to begin.

"Aye," he agrees, studying me pensively. Absently I wonder whether he's tossing around the same idea I am: are we allies?

Watching him I start to contemplate the past few days. We have certainly become close; after all we have spent at least thirteen hours a day a day with each other. Of course we're comfortable with one another.

And then there are those rare moments when some foreign flicker of emotion touches his stare; moments when neither of us are able to maintain eye contact. There are moments my fingers brush his just a moment too long, or an unnecessary touch becomes a comforting gesture.

We are friends, but in the face of death are we allies?

"Yer lucky t' have me as yer trainer." The comment is so unexpected it actually deters my thoughts. "Most trainers ain't gonna train their tributes. They'll get complacent. Complacency will get 'em killed."

He starts to walk off but I stop him before I properly consider what I am asking. "Enrique?" He shoots a quizzical look, waiting expectantly. While I grapple for words his stare intensifies until I finally just say it. "What are we?"

His eyes flash, widening just before he turns away, masking his expression. For a long while it seems he isn't going to answer me, or perhaps that he doesn't have an answer, but then he shoots a look at my unfinished lunch and rolls his eyes. "C'mon back t' train when yer done."

|**Wyvern|**

District 2 is the only District I have ever been to, and it is a District I hope to never visit again. This is my first decision when I get off the train.

District 2 is an area with poverty spread only in the outskirts of the District; everywhere else is built up and in a continuous state of activity. In the main square there are both young and old; the young trill loudly and the potential victors chat about the games. The older men and women eye me warily but do not stop me as I make my way through their district to the Mayor's home.

It is easy to spot; it's the most extravagant of the homes, two stories tall with a Victorian-style to it, though I am positive even the most educated of District 2 know little about the old-style homes and the value they would possess in the Capitol.

News ventures quickly through the district as when I reach the door and knock it opens immediately to reveal an Avox. She's a young, pretty girl with auburn locks that fall in waves about her shoulders and bright, caramel eyes. Her peaches and cream skin offers few flaws, and if those few flaws did not exist she would be, physically perfect.

"I need to speak to the Mayor of District 2," I say, almost surprised when I do not receive an answer.

But of course she couldn't answer me, not after the Capitol removed her tongue and ensured she could never speak again. The bitterness that comes with that thought is dangerous, and thankfully I don't have time to consider the blatancy of my distaste when the Mayor appears behind the Avox.

"Thank you, Amanda," he says, patting her shoulder as though she is a child and he is shooing her along. "You're Mr. Eulacias, correct? What grants us your company?"

I shift in discomfort, his professional demeanor disconcerting. Capitolites are rarely this formal with one another, or as compellingly diplomatic as this man seems. "Yes, well, I was wishing to speak with some individuals who might know where Norio Vu is."

The mayor's expression scrunches but then he is smiling, only his vibrant, cerulean eyes letting on to the distress the name causes him. "You may speak to me and my wife if you'd like. We have an extensive history with Norio and would be delighted to answer any of your questions."

"I'd appreciate that," I say, following the man down the carpeted hallway and to the living room, the décor approaching the standard of a low-middle class home in the Capitol. The comparison sends a tendril of alarm through me. I wonder just how aware the Capitol is of the similarities between the favored District to the Capitol.

"Delilah, this is Mr. Eulacias," he introduces me and I realize I haven't even gotten his name yet. I start to ask for it but he's continuing on, his tone darkening a degree. "He has some questions about Norio."

I am not an intuitive man, but the fear in the woman's eyes sends off the warning bells in my head. "Norio seems to have gone under the radar, if you may," I start slowly, sitting down on the chair across from the mayor and his wife. "I was simply wondering if there's anything you could tell me about him that might lead me to him."

"He's missing?" Delilah asks, a flicker of concern touching her eyes and the quirk of his lips.

I start to confirm that when I think better, eyes drawn to the prominent discoloration at her jawline. The picture begins to settle very quickly as my mind connects the pieces of her fear and the bruising.

"It would not surprise me if Norio fled when his daughter volunteered." Perhaps I'm imagining it, but the inflection in the man's voice is leaking into his calm demeanor. Each time he repeats the man's name a sour note weaves the syllables as a curse, as though the name tastes bitter to his tongue. "Fled or killed himself."

I glance up sharply at that last line, scowling. "Aren't you, as mayor, supposed to watch out for people in the district? Are you telling me a man was suicidal-a quite _powerful_ man-and you did not reach out?"

The mayor's eyes darkened and their sky-like reflection became sharp and cold like ice. "I cannot babysit a demoralized man-"

"How is Norio a demoralized man, simply because his daughter volunteered and is likely to die, if I remember correctly, similarly to how his oldest daughter left this world?" Silently I curse myself; I'm slowly losing it. If I'm not careful everything I've arranged will plummet because I have apparently lost my filter entirely.

For a moment the air between us simmers, his incredulous stare never leaving my conflicted one. His shoulders are tensed and I can see him clenching and unclenching his fists, reiterating the violent nature I've coined him to possess.

Finally he releases his breath, relaxing back into the couch. It is as though a switch has been flipped and he has regained his composure, excluding the fire that lights his eyes. It is the only indication of his resolve to save face. "I apologize, I am under a great deal of stress. I have only recently acquired the position as mayor as a result of our previous mayor, Leroy Vanderbuilt, passing unexpectedly."

I watch him pensively before nodding. "I see," I offer begrudgingly. "I apologize as well, I do not believe I caught your name."

The mayor extends his hand, his teeth flashing what I assume is a charming smile. "Darius Hyacinth."

After a brief handshake I stand, offering a strained smile. "Thank you, Mr. Hyacinth."

**|Iris|**

A groan escapes me as I open my eyes to find the black haired man has not left me. I am positive I have another concussion, especially since he caught me completely off guard with that last strike.

I'm also certain he's not too much older than I am; he's wiry and has the speed that shouldn't be humanly possible.

"C'mon, stop playin' possum, Lil' Lady. 's time t' get t' work."

I glare at him but I doubt it's very convincing since I'm sprawled on my back and feel as though there is not an inch of me that is _not _bruised. "God help me if I have to deal with other tributes _coming back to life _as often as you seem to," I grumble, catching his blurry smirk. Each time he's caught me off guard today has not been because we were fighting, it's been because I turn my back to a _supposed-to-be-dead-man _and get jumped.

Blinking I wait for my vision to clear, and when at last it does I squint up at him, cursing aloud at the same moment he pours ice water on me. "A-hole," I mutter, clambering to my feet only to stumble back.

"Jus' tryin' t' help," he grins as he wraps his fingers around my wrist to keep me standing.

"'preciate it," I say sarcastically, mildly amused I've begun to pick up his careless accent.

"Aye, ya ought t'." He releases my arm and walks over to my discarded weapon; a blunted, wooden baton weighted similarly to a short sword. A part of me thinks working with a sharp sword would be better than that wretched wooden club.

As he stoops to pick it up and replaces it on the weapons rack a gentle rapping cuts through the silence. We exchange a glance, his alert and mine inquisitive. "Were you expecting company?" I ask, taking the momentary relief from training as a chance to wring out my now drenched hair. My tank top and workout pants will just have to stay soaked; I can't say it's much of a difference. We've been practicing sword drills since dawn and it is nearly lunch-time.

Enrique shakes his head and gestures for me to follow him. As he walks I can see the tension in his shoulders and find the apprehension is contagious. He peers through the curtained windows to see who our visitor is, then looks at me. Confusion and something deeper plays out in his eyes even as he opens the door.

"Are you Iris Hyacinth?"

My voice is absent as I realize that the man is not some random visitor; he is the man responsible for the hunger games almost as much as Edana Eulacias is herself. The Head Gamemaker-someone I am almost positive I am _not _supposed to be talking to before the preliminaries-is at the doorstep.

I glance at Enrique whose anger is barely contained, showing through in the slightest of body language. His back is ramrod straight and his jaw is clenched, but his fingers are uncurled at his sides and his eyes are clear as day. It's the confliction in his frame that shows his anger more than anything; it shows he's absolutely furious, but it is not a white rage which overpowers all other emotions.

It is simply an anger outlined by sorrow; enough sorrow to leave him uncertain as to the situation. I feel bad for him then; he's infuriating a majority of the time but he's a good man. He'd also been filling in the holes where Norio had not been able to tell her everything in his letter.

"Where's a 'how are ya?' Or maybe, I dunno, a 'hi?'" Venom seeps deep into his words and I have to fight to turn my attention entirely on the man at the doorway.

"Yeah, I am," I say warily. "You're Wyvern Eulacias."

The man nods, gaze flicking to mine instead of his father's. "I need to talk to you about Norio Vu."

That name is enough, it seems, to jar Enrique out of his anger. I know it is enough to erase the wariness in my veins and turn it instead to concern. "Why?" I ask quietly so the fear does not dominate my words. _Surely...No, no one would tell me if something happened to him. Not during training; that's not like the Capitol. _I try to reason out Norio's safety but the man's next words still all attempts.

"Norio's gone missing; I spoke to the mayor of District 2 and he believes Norio might have committed suicide."

I stare at him, shaking my head incessantly. "No," I say quietly, the wave of dizziness having little to do with the strike to the head. I stumble back until the staircase is behind me and I drop back, sitting down heavily. My eyes never leave the Gamemaker's as his words echo in my brain.

_The mayor of District 2 believes Norio might have committed suicide. _

The idea is ridiculous. Norio would _not _kill himself. It goes against everything he believes in. It _goes _against everything; there is no past tense about it. I refuse to believe Norio would do something like that.

_And the mayor,_ the thought is incomplete and it takes me several moments to fully process what my subconscious has already begun analyzing. "The mayor doesn't know Norio that well," I say quietly, uncertain if the man has heard me until he clears his throat.

"There's a new mayor, it seems."

Another shake of my head. "Leroy Vanderbuilt was in excellent health; he was young. What do you mean there's a new mayor?"

Wyvern steps in the home and closes the door behind him, shooting a wary glance around. Enrique interrupts his nephew's actions immediately. "It's safe t' talk," he says, seeming as fixated by the concept as I am.

A look of gratitude crosses the younger man's face before his attention is back to the discussion at hand. "The new mayor claims that Mr. Vanderbuilt's death was...unexpected."

I'm shaking my head even as the question escapes. Even as the uncanny knowledge washes over me. "Who's the new mayor?"

"Darius Hyacinth-which is why I'm here. He claimed he knew Norio well and thought suicide was a possibility. What I wanted to ask you was do you believe that's possible as well. Norio's your father, I suspect you'd know him best."

I'm dimly aware tears are in the backs of my eyes, leaking out despite my better attempts to remain unmoved. "No," I say quietly, not recognizing the anger that causes a thin tremor in my voice. "Norio would _not _kill himself."

_But would Darius? _The thought sends a shiver down my spine and makes my legs impossible to stand upon. It is a possibility, but it's one that I cast away as soon as the idea comes up. Unless Darius is hiring help to do his dirty work, he could not kill Norio. "Are you positive?"

"Get out, Wyvern," I hear Enrique growl at his nephew, opening the front door as emphasis. I glance up just in time to see the Gamemaker's departure, his shoulders hunched as the door closes behind him.

Enrique does not move closer, instead he sinks back against the door, watching me with undirected anger in his eyes. I want to ask him something but I know it'd be ignorant to ask him now; not when the appearance of his son has left him in such a state.

So instead I go to fix lunch, knowing he's in no mood to cook today, and is likely to hide out in the training center until he calms down. To my surprise he follows me to the kitchen instead, seeming aged just from that short encounter. "Yer right," he says quietly, pushing me away as he goes about finding something for lunch. "Norio wouldn't do that."

I nod absently, finding cups and pouring water for myself and him some soda. I'm considering my words when Enrique speaks up again, cursing as he burns himself. "What do ya think happened?"

"I think Darius has something to do with it," I tell him, breathing out heavily. "But at the same time, I don't." He turns to look at me as the water boils and I shake my head wearily. "Darius isn't a strong fighter, I don't think he'd be able to do it himself. If he's mayor though...he has some new resources."

Enrique takes a breath. "Wyvern's goin' against a lotta rules by talkin' t' ya. I think Norio's alive, but 'm a bit more worried 'bout why Wyvern's lookin' for 'im."

I ask, "What do you think's goin' on?"

He shakes his head, watching me wearily. "I think I have a lotta explainin' t' do."


End file.
